Fleur de Lis
by Hikari Nanase
Summary: An eye, a flower, an all-seeing passion with no eyes or lips.


"Fleur de Lis" 

3/8/03

By: Hikari Nanase

E-mail to: hikari1612@netzero.net

Notes: Pun, metaphor, or symbol? 

~*~*~*~

            I'm not a good person. Everyday I want to kill someone. Everyday I'm ill at ease. Morons who think they know everything surround me, and sadly I'm one of their species. I hate my species. Sick fools. Sick arrogant fools. None of them can see the beauty in cruel detail. Nothing in the world is ever simple. Those blind idiots.  

            They look at me and see a mask. They can't read my expressions. I won't let them. I know it when my eyes glaze over as they watch the world. The truth is, they're not gazing at anything in particular- no. Instead I envision things that are impossible for anyone to understand or see.

            What I understand are those purple flowers. They bloom rapidly in the rain. It's called an iris. Iris… a name for a flower as well as a name for the colorful part of an eye. Flowers see everything. They know everything. I listen to them sharply… much better than that vain fox.

            I was a flower when I was little. My irises were the strongest shade of blue in the world. My father adored them… perhaps too much. 

            An iris unfurls best in harsh weather, and nobody has seen the kind of tempests I've survived. Oh yes, those times when I thought I would drown in rushing water- wilted and gone. To my dismay, I was stronger than I had hoped. 

            However, I didn't get prettier. I grew ugly instead. Years went by and with each year a new scar- a petal lost. My blood was shed over the fields. Sometimes those rolling fields were blanketed with lilac. Sometimes with rose. Sometimes with lotus. 

            If those flowers could tell stories, there would be too much to tell. Where I come from, the more lavish the flower, the bigger the corpse beneath the soil. The lilac field by the slave hold was the land of the dead. They used to execute slaves there. The buds thrived on the remains.

            More often then not, they witness rape. When pollen flies through the air, buds are raped by the wind and give birth to new blossoms. I've born many children, all of whom were born of incest. My father used to spread me over a bundle of irises. He liked the way they blended with my eyes. He'd hold me fast on top of those flowers. I never said anything. I only got pregnant and had to kill my own children. I killed them by planting them in the wet mud.

            When father was through with me, he'd keep the irises for himself. My scent was on them. I think he cherished that. He would return to his quarters- a large room of blankets and soft bedding. I would return to my own- a small prison with a bit of straw. 

            I hated that man. I destroyed myself with acid to spite him.

            He banished me for my repulsiveness. My face turned rotten, and my hair coarse. A flower with no petals. A stem ripped of its bud. You can't rape me now. No one can, not even the wind. I shiver to its touch, but give nothing. 

            I'm surrounded by those who fear or dread my appearance. My left eye suffered the loss of an eyelid and surrounding flesh. Hideous. My skin is tough, not smooth, and sore red, not pale. When people shrink away from you as they do with me, you begin wishing for lustful attention- bad or good.

            I'm not a good person. I've learned to desire what I didn't want to be abused with. I am a hypocrite. I am a fool. 

            Cowering behind shadows and masks preserves my vanity. I like hiding myself. It's easier for people to draw closer to me if they cannot see me. 

            Those blind idiots. I am not so simple as meaningless beauty. Is there really such a thing?

            There was another who wasn't a good person. Everyday he wanted kill, but grew tired of his frustration. He was so stunningly complex that many feared him, regardless of how fragile and small he was. I could tell he had seen many things in his life, and like a flower he said not a word. Instead he would stand indifferent and sway like a moonflower under the night. He blooms only in darkness. His arms open up to the sky and his skin soak in the ivory rays. Blessed are those who witness his unguarded vulnerability. 

            He gave me flowers one day. It was the day I was born. He wanted me to remove my mask so I could see the bouquet. 

Purple irises. They blended nicely with my pretty face, he said.

            Irises see everything. They see truths. I've known them since I was a little girl and if I am lucky, perhaps he and I will be buried beneath them. What a lovely day it would be then.


End file.
